Wilson's Lament
by s0ulm8
Summary: Dr. James Wilson finally finds love. Will it withstand the withering glare of House?
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

"Tell me what I can do for you. Tell me what you need, what you want. I want to please you."

His warm breath on her skin was so comforting. How could she tell him what she needed, when he'd already given her more than she'd ever received from any man she'd ever been with.

"You've been too kind already, James, it's my turn."

Their lovemaking was passionate and sweet by turns, in his arms the safest she'd felt in so long. She buried her head in his chest and held him close, listening to his heart beat, tracing circles across his back.

He didn't consider himself an athletic lover, but he knew he was a considerate one. He desperately wanted to make this woman happy, satisfy her so she would come back to him. He was so lonely. He didn't want to scare her off.

Her long, light brown hair hung about her shoulders, draping across the pillow and framing her face in what appeared to be gold from his vantage point. He knew he was falling in love with her and he very much wanted her to reciprocate. He felt altogether alone. Her pale green eyes studied his every move, memorizing that crooked grin and his facial expressions which could so easily change from the seriousness of deadly diagnosis to the compassion of breaking horribly bad news to the hope of comfort, if not cure. All these things she had witnessed and admired.

Her fingers traced slowly up his naked body from his thigh to his collarbone, the goose bumps following. He closed his eyes, solely wanting to experience the sensation. The dimness of his hotel room added to the ambience. She had insisted on lighting a candle and it's glow softened the night, its fragrance filling the space.

"I like that." He whispered. Her lips followed her finger trail in the opposite direction. "Cherie," he breathed, shifting his position a bit, his fingers stroking her arm. Her breath, her mouth were so warm and soothing, He'd ardently missed the touch of another human being.

They had been dating for six weeks before Wilson finally felt comfortable asking her to his hotel room. He was a bit ashamed of the fact that he lived there, but it was easy to clean (by someone else), close to the hospital and somewhere House didn't like to visit.

House. So far, James had been able to keep Cherie a secret from his friend. It's not that he was ashamed of Cherie, he simply knew he'd invite disaster upon himself should House find out before the relationship had a chance to solidify. House would tear her apart and James with her. This was one battle he was going to win without interference.

"Where are you?" She murmured. "You've drifted away."

James slid his arms around her, pulling her closer to him. "I'm right here with you." They kissed for what seemed like days, neither one caring about time nor space nor reality, lost in the taste of the other. They drifted off to sleep, happy that tomorrow was a day that held no obligations for either of them.

Wilson had had a long talk with his ex-wife, Bonnie, soon after the Hector debacle. He'd found, not at all surprisingly, that House had lied to him. Bonnie had never said he was bad in bed, quite the contrary. She did finally admit to him the real reason for their break up. This time he wanted it to be different. This time he would try to be a little less himself.

Cherie Robertston was a well-educated woman with varied interests which included theater, music and dancing. She loved to dance. By day she was an accountant in a large firm in Princeton, but by night she was, in fact, a part-time dance instructor. That's how she and James had met. At a tea dance in a local hotel. James had been bored out of his mind and decided that if he couldn't be with someone, he could at least be in the same room with other people. Cherie saw a good looking man alone and couldn't pass up the opportunity. They had hit it off immediately.

He had seemed to be a bit needy. That was her first impression. She wouldn't be able to tolerate that for long. She liked men who could make their own decisions. However, after a few dates, she came to the realization that it wasn't he that was needy. He was looking for someone who was needy themselves. He needed to be needed. Well, she knew the remedy for that. Her own independence. If he couldn't tolerate that, oh well. Better to know early. And what she decided she wanted to know before she risked her heart was how compatible they were sexually. Finding that out had been Cherie's first order of business.

So, why had it taken six weeks? Cherie liked to take things slowly. As a top notch CPA, her habit was to allow things to unfold gradually. No use rushing into a burning building. Let the fire smolder awhile. She knew there was a reason he hadn't suggested sex sooner, she would wait to find out. She was nothing if not patient.

She was a bit concerned when she found he had three ex-wives. That didn't seem to be a good sign. However, she couldn't quite understand why they would leave him. Perhaps living with an enabler had its drawbacks. She would have to watch that. It's so easy to take advantage.

Chapter Two

Keeping House in the dark was the hardest part of all this. Wilson had been lucky so far. House's radar didn't seem to have picked up on anything. It was totally foolish for Wilson to worry about this, but then, not everyone had a House in their lives. The fact that Cherie had no connections to the hospital was a godsend. What was difficult was taking her places where he knew no one would see them. It's not like Princeton was New York City. It was like creating a whole new world. He knew he wouldn't be able to keep it up for long. He knew he would have to explain House to Cherie and he dreaded that conversation. How do you explain a problem like Gregory House?

Saturday morning dawned with James' arms wrapped around Cherie, her face nuzzled into his chest. He immediately wanted to jump out of bed and make breakfast for her, run her a bath, treat her like a queen. He stopped himself just in time. No, no, don't do that. Drink in her perfume, brush the hair from her face. Let her wake to something normal, like your arousal. That would be almost clichéd. But it would be normal.

The phone beside his bed shrilled, shattering the dream. Quickly reaching for it, his heart sank when he recognized the strident tones on the other end of the line. "Sorry, House, not today." Cherie raised her head, a confused look on her face. James gazed into her eyes and smiled. "House, I'm busy today, maybe next weekend. I'll talk to you on Monday." Hanging up the phone, he kissed her gently, hoping she wouldn't ask.

"Hospital business so early in the morning, _Monsieur le docteur_?" She smiled, not seeming the least bit alarmed.

"Something like that." James adjusted his position and pulled Cherie on top of him, smothering her face with kisses. The phone call was quickly forgotten, lost in waves of warmth.

Later that day, James decided he'd better begin explaining things to Cherie. She seemed to be in a good mood and he certainly was. "I'd like to tell you about that phone call this morning, Cherie."

Her quizzical look told him she either didn't think the incident worth explaining, or had forgotten the phone call altogether. "You see, I've told you about my job as head of the Oncology Department at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital."

She smiled, still confused. "Yes, I understand doctors get phone calls at all hours and their lives are interrupted constantly."

James sighed, "Well, what I haven't told you is that my best friend is the head of the Diagnostics Department at PPTH. His name is Greg House and he's what you might call possessive."

"Possessive of you? What are you trying to tell me, James? Are you and this House person involved with each other?" Cherie was now becoming alarmed.

"No, no! No, Cherie, it's not like that. That's not what I meant." He paused, "this is so hard to explain." He sat close to her and took her hands into his. She had the feeling she was about to hear news of a dear relative's death. Her hackles were up and he knew it.

"Greg House is a brilliant doctor, but a flawed human being. I'm not even sure why he is the way he is, and I've known him forever. His one burning need in life is a puzzle to solve. When one isn't handed to him, he creates one. He can't leave anything alone. He must know everything about everybody and he has very strong opinions." James felt like an idiot.

"You're telling me that this House person is going to try to come between us? Your personal life is none of his business, I don't care how old your friendship is. That's absurd. Besides, is there an us?" She wasn't sure about this anymore.

His face became very soft. "I'd like to think there is an 'us', Cherie. What I'm trying to do, and not very well, is warn you. Most people take an immediate dislike to House, and with good reason. But he's my friend and I love him like a brother. He's just a very intrusive brother. He will do and say things that are, to be quite frank, ugly, cruel and downright mean. In this case, he'll do them to try to protect me from myself."

"So, what, your friendship with him is more important than any relationship with me?" Cherie was becoming angry. This would not do. Too much baggage. Cut loose now. She stood, looking at him with sadness. "I have to go, James. This is a little too much to digest just now."

Damn it. This is what he had dreaded. "Please, Cherie, don't leave. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"I have to think, James. You're carrying a lot of emotional baggage that I'm not sure I can handle. Perhaps, well… I just have to think."

With that she was gone. He was alone. Again.

Cherie left the building, headed for her car. She was disappointed, but oddly calm. What surprised her was that she wasn't angry. She should be angry. She should be royally pissed. But she wasn't, she was heartbroken. Overwhelmed with a feeling of utter rejection. She didn't even know this House person and he had, even so, managed to ruin something beautiful. He was nothing if not formidable. That was frightening.

On the long ride home, Cherie pondered long and hard how she might handle this. James had been growing on her. She liked the way he cared for people, how he could somehow manage to know why they did what they did. He analyzed, but didn't criticize. That was important to her. Her world was full of critique of one sort or another. It was often difficult for her to separate the emotional from the impersonal. She'd learned to do so, however, in order to survive in her business. Statistics were everything. If you couldn't prove it with numbers, it didn't exist.

Chapter Three

"House, I need a referral." Wilson popped his head into House's office, hoping to hear no more about the weekend.

"Sorry, friend, I'm busy." House turned his attention back to his tabloid. Wilson's hopes vanished into thin air.

Wilson shook his head. "OK, fine. Bald-headed four-year old little boy doesn't need you that badly. I'll handle it myself."

"Cancerman can't handle cancer? What's the world coming to?" House snarked, still not looking at Wilson.

"Something else is going on. Something other than the cancer that's killing him."

"And it can't be explained by the chemo or radiation? Those two usually account for everything unusual." House was becoming intrigued in spite of himself.

"No chemo or radiation for six weeks now. No infection, no recurrence of the original tumor, no new abnormal growths. Nothing I can pin on cancer."

Wilson started to back out of the office.

"Hey, wait a minute! What are his symptoms?" House called out after him.

For about thirty minutes the two doctors talked about the unfortunate young boy's problems. House still wasn't convinced it wasn't cancer-related, but since he'd had no patients of his own since his team disbanded, he decided to play, just to ease the boredom. Wilson left the office with a new perspective and headed to the boy's room to start a series of tests.

He'd managed to escape without a single scratch.

Wilson hadn't heard from Cherie in three days and was worried. Should he call her? Would that send the wrong signal? Should he just wait it out and let her do the thinking she said she needed to do? He felt like a teenager again, all tied up in knots.

By lunchtime, Wilson was thinking he just might get away with ignoring House over the weekend. He shouldn't have gotten so comfortable.

"Wilson, who was the gorgeous woman you were with Saturday?" Cuddy was gushing as she slid into the chair at the table in the cafeteria. "I'm glad to see you're dating again."

"Yeah, Wilson, who is she?" Wilson groaned as House deposited his tray onto the table. "You've left me for another woman?" House was pouting furiously.

Cuddy looked at Wilson with a sheepish expression. "I'm sorry, Wilson, I thought House knew. I'll talk to you later." She quickly left the table and the cafeteria. House watched her leave as he always did.

House lazily munched his sandwich, watching Wilson squirm. However, Wilson didn't say anything, he just kept pushing food around on his plate. Truth be told, he was more concerned about Cherie than about House at the moment.

"Seriously, Wilson, who is she?" House was bemused by his friend's quandary.

"What?" Wilson had come to a decision and wasn't even listening to House anymore. "I gotta go, talk to you later." He left House to bus their table.

House watched, dumbfounded, as Wilson left the cafeteria. He was actually at a loss for words.

Wilson headed back to his office and locked both doors. He truly did not want to be interfered with. Picking up the phone, he dialed Cherie's cell. He was nearly holding his breath.

"Cherie Robertston, how may I help you?" Her soothing voice came through the line and stroked his cheek.

"Cherie, this is James." He paused, waiting to see if she'd hang up on him. When she didn't, he continued, "Cherie, I'd like to come over and see you tonight. Would that be alright?"

"Actually, James, I'd like that." He could hear a smile in her voice and was grateful. "Shall we say eight?"

"I'll be there. Thank you, Cherie." Wilson hung up just in time to see House peering at him through the balcony door, like a little kid at a toy store.

Reluctantly, he rose from his desk and opened the door, allowing House entrance to his office. He watched while his friend made himself comfortable.

"You going let me in on the secret, or am I going to have to follow you all over town until I find out?" House was smirking.

"Her name is Cherie Robertston. She's a CPA. I met her at a tea dance. I'm falling in love with her. Leave it alone, House." Wilson was not exactly confrontational, but he was not going to back down, either.

House was taken aback. "What the hell's a tea dance? You really think it'll work this time? When do I get to meet her?"

"Not until the wedding, with any luck." Wilson smiled.

House harrumphed and left the office, determined to meddle. But first, he needed to pry some information out of Cuddy.

Limping down the hall with a look on his face that dared anyone to as much as cross his path, he headed to the elevators. Once on the first floor, he saw Cuddy scurrying to her office, trying desperately to avoid him. Why she thought she was safe in there was anyone's guess.

"Okay, spill it. Where'd you see them?" House plopped down unceremoniously on Cuddy's office sofa, propping his leg on the coffee table.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Cuddy tried to get distracted in the paperwork on her desk.

"Don't give me that. Wilson and Cherie… where'd you see them?" House waited patiently, twirling his cane nonchalantly.

"House, did it ever occur to you that other people's personal business is personal? Perhaps Wilson doesn't want you nosing in on his life all the time! Just drop it, for heaven's sake." She continued scribbling.

House was gazing up at the ceiling. "Did it ever occur to you that this Cherie person could be the fourth ex-Mrs. Wilson? Even you can't be that heartless."

"House, get out of my office. Go do your clinic hours. You have no one to do them for you now. I will not be a party to your shenanigans. Shoo!" She tossed her hand toward the door, wishing she could physically toss him out as well.

Grumbling, House hoisted himself out of the sofa and headed toward the clinic, hell-bent on giving anyone he encountered there more than a hard time. Eight patients later, his job there was done. Two of the patients complained to Cuddy, three left crying and one kicked him in the shin. It was good to be king.

Wilson left the hospital at five thirty on the dot, looking forward to his date with Cherie. He planned on taking her to the finest French restaurant in Princeton. But first, a shower and a shave. He was smiling.

Pulling out just after Wilson did and staying far enough back so as not to attract attention, House followed on his motorcycle. He would get to the bottom of this if it killed Wilson. And, it just might.

Chapter Four

House waited with his version of patience outside Wilson's hotel. He waited and waited and waited. People came and went, permanent guests and out-of-towners, businessmen and women, the occasional call-person, but no Wilson.

He couldn't have slipped out the back door, that was not his style, thought House. What was he doing up there? Just how long does it take to blow dry your hair? Finally, at nine o'clock, House gave up and drove home, fuming.

What House couldn't have known and what had been a complete surprise to Wilson himself, was that Cherie had been waiting for him when he got back to his room. They had spent the last few hours talking.

"James, I've decided that I like this… thing… between us and I'd like it to develop and, hopefully grow. Each of us has our own demons and past. If you can learn about and accept mine, I have no right to discard yours out of hand. Whoever this House person is, he'll simply have to deal with your life as you live it. And, he'll have to deal with me." With that, Cherie wrapped her arms around James and didn't loosen them until morning. He wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

Later that week, Cherie stopped in to her local herb shop, 'Herb's Herbs'. Herb was an old friend of the family and had inherited the shop from his _grand-père_. He mixed up a wonderful tea, the contents of which she didn't even bother to ask, which she rarely went without.

Browsing the shelves lined with luscious-smelling this-and-that's, Cherie noticed a dull thumping sound from somewhere toward the back of the store. As she made her way slowly in the direction of the sound, her attention was distracted by a shrill scream from the doorway.

The small, female body lay slumped in the floor, blocking the entrance. Cherie rushed forward, attempting to establish if she were conscious, if she were breathing. She was not. "Herb! Call 911!" Slowly and deftly, Cherie rolled the woman to her back, opened her airway and followed all the instructions she had memorized in CPR class.

"Did anyone see her collapse?" A deep, gravelly voice inquired.

"She just walked through the door, man, kind of looked around." Herb was wringing his hands, hoping the ambulance would get there soon. "Dude, she just fell out!"

The poor young woman's heart had stopped beating and Cherie had begun chest compressions. As she did so, she turned her head in the direction of the voice, hoping to enlist assistance. However, she caught sight of the fiery cane and decided against it. Cherie continued on alone.

"Check her pulse again." The voice commanded.

Without thinking, Cherie obliged. Nothing.

"No, move your fingers closer to the center." The voice was barking now.

"Why don't you just get down here and do it yourself, Doctor?" She was becoming a little irritated with what's-his-name.

"Can't… no good at kneeling, but you knew that." Was that a bit of sarcasm she noted?

Cherie went back to her CPR and, thankfully, the ambulance finally screamed to a stop in front of the store.

The paramedics stopped dead in their tracks, seemingly ignoring Cherie and the young woman. They appeared to be waiting for instructions.

"Twenty-something, heroin OD, probably a mule." What's-his-name stated rather flatly, stepped over the body, and left the store.

"You guys want to help here, or shall I just keep going?" Cherie was winded at this point and her wrists were throbbing.

Jumping as if out of a dream, the paramedics leapt forward and commenced 'paramedic-ing'. Herb helped Cherie out of the floor and pulled her back behind the counter, as if shielding her from some horror.

"How'd he know?" Herb whispered in her ear.

"How'd who know what?" Cherie replied.

"That guy with the cane, how'd he know about the heroin OD?" Herb was still whispering.

"You don't know him?"

Herb shook his head, "Never been in here before."

"Even morons make lucky guesses, Herb. Besides, we don't know whether he's right or not." Cherie just wanted her tea and an escape route.

As the paramedics were loading the young woman into the ambulance, one of them threw a look over his shoulder, "Oh, he's right Ma'am," rolling his eyes, he continued, "that one's always right."

Before she could ask, 'that one, who?', they were gone.

Walking home from the store, Cherie flipped open her cell phone to call James. He wasn't busy and was delighted to hear from her. She recounted her adventure, becoming more animated by the minute. As she ended her story, she noticed that James hadn't said anything and the line was silent. "James, did I lose you?"

Clearing his voice, he replied, "No, Cherie, I'm here and I have good and bad news for you."

"Oh dear, give me the bad news first, please." She'd gone tense all over.

"Well, my dear, you just met Dr. Greg House." He tried to sound jovial.

"And the good news?" She murmured into the phone.

"There is none. You have now been imprinted in his memory. I fully expect to hear his version of events when next we meet." Wilson was actually looking forward to it.

"Well, then, I fully expect to be hailed as the next Florence Nightingale." Somehow, she knew that wouldn't be the story, but laughed anyway.

"Trust me, I'll let you know!" James kissed her through the phone and hung up.

Bursting into his office, House plopped down in the 'bad news' chair and exclaimed, "You're not going to believe how stupid some people are!"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Five

"Do tell." Wilson continued scribbling in a chart while House accosted him with the improbable story of a good Samaritan coming to the aid of a waste-of-breath drug runner.

"Why do you people do these things?" House exclaimed. "God knows what diseases that girl was carrying besides all the heroin in her gut. Damn, Sally CPR could be high for a week!"

Wilson chuckled. "Did it ever occur to you that perhaps Sally CPR felt that all life is sacred? Something along the lines of, oh say, the Hippocratic Oath?"

"The Hippocratic Oat is hypocritical, explain that conundrum." House shot back.

"Only you, House, would find that to be true, only you." Wilson was still chuckling.

He waited until House calmed down to break the news to him. "Oh, by the way, Sally CPR is, in fact, my Cherie. Glad you two were able to meet."

House stared at Wilson for several seconds, blinked a time or two, then quipped, "Nice ass." Wilson glared at him for a moment. "Don't look at me like that, she had it sticking up in the air doing CPR, I couldn't help but notice!"

Wilson continued scribbling and House pondered. "Doesn't rattle easily does she?"

"Don't be making any plans on testing that theory, House." Wilson smiled into his paperwork.

"Why, you two think you're safe?" House started to leave the office, an evil chortle echoing behind him.

"You ready for dinner?" Wilson asked.

"What, you're not taking the inimitable Cherie to some classless upscale joint?" House fired.

"Nope, I'm taking you to the Triumph for a bite to eat and a drink. My treat, as usual." Wilson closed the file he'd been working on, stood and shed his lab coat, grabbing his sport coat and shrugging into it.

They left the hospital, Wilson stopping momentarily to fill Cuddy in on some trivia or another, then headed to their favorite bar. The air was crisp, just enough to invigorate, not quite enough to freeze. They chose to walk to the bar, as it wasn't far at all and both strode along in companionable silence.

"So what is it that this woman has that I haven't? House mumbled.

Without so much as skipping a beat, Wilson's response went something like this, "Two beautiful, natural breasts that the best plastic surgeon would die for, a soft look in her eyes that was not created by makeup and a secret garden that you could get lost in for days. She sends flowers to me rather than the other way 'round. She reads me O Henry and I read her the comics from the newspaper. We are our own book club, which is very stimulating. She simply likes me, and steps over my need to be needed. Doesn't mean she doesn't need me, but she's not co-dependant in any way." 

"Sounds like foreplay to me."

"Yes, but without the horses." Wilson looked at his old friend. "It's for real, House, this time it's for real. She has seen my 'need to be needed' side and I've seen her 'need to be independent' side. We seem to be able to juggle the two without dropping either. I know you are you, House, and I know your MO. Please don't try to interfere, please don't try to humiliate me or Cherie, Just accept that your oldest, dearest friend may have found the right one this time."

House studied on this for awhile until they got to the Triumph. Entering, they found a table near the middle of the rabble and made themselves comfortable. The waitress took their drink orders, Bombay Sapphire and tonic for Wilson, Scotch neat for House and promised to return.

"So what were you doing in the herbal shop today anyway?" Wilson asked between sips.

"Don't know, really, maybe hoping to find some ancient Chinese secret for getting rid of chronic pain." House mumbled into his Scotch.

Wilson looked at him with concern. "And did you find anything?"

"Just a lot of crap whose cleanliness and quality can only be questioned." House's voice truly sounded disappointed.

During the next few weeks, House did his best not to interfere with Wilson and Cherie. However, in the end, his curiosity got the best of him and he started to do a little digging, finding the club where Cherie did her dance instructing.

The place was small, cozy, intimate even. Everything called out, 'Don't be shy, it's only a dance'. While his eyes were adjusting to the dim lighting, House was accosted three times by young women offering temporary vertical partnership. Each in turn saw the cane and apologetically excused themselves.

"Dr. House, I presume?" Cherie's soft voice floated over his right shoulder and he turned to confront that which had so captivated Wilson. Her smile was constrained, but genuine. She waited patiently.

"Cherie the Wilson-killer." He tried to sound cutting. It missed a bit.

"Would you like to dance?" Cherie offered, ignoring the cane.

"Fourth time's the charm, I suppose."

They walked out toward the dance floor, Cherie in the lead. Somehow, House didn't see her motion with her head to the trio in the corner, indicating her wish for something slow tempo'd. The music filled the little space without overwhelming it. She turned and offered herself to the person who, she knew, one way or another, would make or break her relationship with James.

House hooked his cane over his elbow and took Cherie's proffered hands. He pulled her close, studying her eyes, watching for any reaction. Their bodies gently swayed in time with the music. He resisted the temptation to hum along. Instead, as was his wont, he went straight for the jugular.

"You know he won't be able to say 'no' when I call on him."

"A man in need, are you?"

"I don't like being without him for very long."

"Now that is a cryptic statement. Could be interpreted in any number of ways."

"I don't care how it's interpreted. He's the one person I haven't been able to push completely out of my life and I've come to want it that way. What I want, I eventually get."

"And what is it you want right now, Dr. House?"

"What I want is a tour of this secret garden of yours. I'd like to see for myself if it's as charming as Wilson claims."

"I'm flattered. However, I see no reason to share myself with you or anyone else. James is all I require and all I desire. I'm afraid I'll have to rebuff your advances, Dr. House, you understand."

House suddenly pulled her closer, locking her arms behind her back. He kissed her deeply, stridently, doing his best to break down her façade. He would prove Wilson right-- or wrong-- one way or another.

Her knee found its way to his groin, then moved slightly to her left. That one motion told him just how much she was ready to hurt him. Her eyes stayed calm, but her lips quivered slightly.

"Don't ever attempt that again, Dr. House. You will surely regret it."

Chapter Six

House never saw it coming. He was leaving his apartment building, rounding the corner out into the street. He blinked into the sunshine and when next he opened his eyes, he was sprawled on the sidewalk, a severe burning sensation settling into his right eye socket. He didn't try to defend himself for some reason, he just sat there looking up.

The vision that greeted his upturned face was none other than an extremely agitated, not to say angry, James Wilson. His nares flared, his face dangerously red, his eyes virtually popping out of his skull. His mouth moved again and again with a silent soliloquy known only to him. When speech did return his tone was high-pitched and dangerous. "I asked you to leave her alone. I told you to leave her alone, I told you to leave us alone. But you couldn't do that, could you, House? You had to stick your big nose in where it doesn't belong. You had to put Cherie to the test. Do you honestly think every woman, when attacked by you, succumbs to your brutishness?"

"Calm down, Wilson, I proved my point. You should be happy. She loves you and you alone. She turned down my advances flat. Even after my finest James Bond kiss. She well-slapped me and sent me on my way. You have nothing to fear from the charming Cherie."

"It's not Cherie I've ever been afraid of, House. It's always been you. I can't continue to serve as your emergency conscience, to be tapped into night or day. I can't continue living my life while looking over my shoulder waiting for you to swoop in and screw things up. You have got to learn to back off and leave my personal life alone. If, and I say, if I need your help I'll ask for it! Can you possibly understand that?"

Without waiting for an answer, Wilson spun around and strode away, turning his back on his best friend. It had to be this way. It was time.

Cherie had not intended for James to attack House. She certainly hadn't intended to end a years-long friendship. She simply told him of House's visit and how, even to her surprise, he'd pushed the envelope just a bit too far. Cherie hadn't been afraid of House. It was quite odd. It was as though she knew what he would do and simply watched him do it. He was testing her and she knew that, too. Why he felt he had the right or the cajones to do so was interesting as well.

"James, don't hate him on my account. It simply isn't worth it." She was fussing over yesterday's leftovers.

James stood behind her, his face lying gently against her shoulder. "You're worth it, Cherie."

She turned to him, noting the sadness in his eyes. Silently, she ran her fingers through his thick, brown hair. "He's been your friend for so long, James. Try to… no, you must forgive him."

Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her close. He so wanted to forget everything and everyone, concentrate solely on her. His mouth found her mouth and he lost himself again.

The night was bittersweet. Her gentle moans of contentment, his sighs of desire echoed 'round and 'round her bedroom. The aroma of jasmine and coupling assaulted every sense. Slowly they gave of themselves and took from one another all that was needed, all that was wanted, all that was intended. They serenaded each other with passionate kisses, their bodies swaying and tumbling. Time and again they catapulted into bliss, calming, then returning once more. Just once more.

In the cool light of morning, his fingertips traced patterns over her skin. His mouth sketched warm, wet trails over her breasts. He stopped momentarily, then frantically tried to forget his medical training, his years of experience. Something was wrong. Desperately wrong.

"Cherie?"

"Yes, _mon amore_?"

"How long has your nipple been red like this?"

Cherie nearly giggled. "Probably since you began suckling it so intensely, my sweet."

There was a silence that demanded relief.

"Why? What's wrong, James?"

"When was your last mammogram?"

"Oh my God, James, you're scaring me!"

"When?"

"Six months ago. Everything was fine. What is it?"

He had been on the other side of the desk for so long. His professional nemesis had never reared its ugly head within anyone he was close to, certainly never anyone he loved.

"It's probably nothing. It's probably my imagination. If I schedule another mammogram for today, will you come?"

A tear slid down her cheek. "Of course, whatever you say."

"It's probably nothing, Cherie. I'm sorry I frightened you." He held her close, stroking her back, wishing he'd never said anything. "It's probably nothing."

She called her office later that morning, cancelling any appointments she had, explaining she was ill. Cherie was never ill. Her secretary was concerned. "Are you alright, Ms. Robertston?"

"It's probably nothing, Claire. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

Cherie hated mammograms. It's not the discomfort, it's the embarrassment. All that tugging and pulling, kneading and stretching. All to alleviate fear. All for naught. She endured it and the follow up ultrasound with characteristic stoicism.

"Cherie, we need a biopsy." His eyes could barely meet hers.

"It's bad, isn't it, James?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"Too late."

The biopsy revealed what he feared the most. Inflammatory breast cancer. It had already metastasized, he knew not how far. James admitted Cherie to the hospital and ordered a battery of tests, including chest x-rays, CT and bone scans and a plethora of lab work. Toward evening, they knew the worst.

James sat on her hospital bed, holding her hand, trying hard not to cry. "This is an aggressive, fast-moving cancer, Cherie." His voice slipped into his characteristically compassionate tone. "There are treatment options including surgery…"

"Stop it, James. Don't speak to me as a doctor, speak to me as a lover."

Unable to restrain his sorrow and fear any longer, he clasped her to him, tears coursing down his face. "It's too far gone, Cherie. I can't stop it, I can't make it better. I'm so sorry. I've failed you miserably."

"You've done nothing of the kind, James, nothing of the kind."

She was too stunned to think, too numb to weep, too frightened to let go of him.

Chapter Seven

High overhead the sun leant its rays to the winter-weary landscape, dappling through the leaves of the great old oak, highlighting the sparkling laughter of the five year old girl reveling in the attentions of her favorite person. Higher and higher the swing soared until she just knew she could fly into that gorgeous blue sky if she were only brave enough to let go. "Hold tight, baby girl!" was all that held her to this earth.

These were the glory days of any young girl. Alone in the whole wide world with the first man she'd ever fall in love with. The man who would shape the rest of her life. Little Cherie Bolay loved her _papa _with the intensity only a child knowing nothing else could Her heart held nothing but him. He was her refuge when _maman_ took one of her spells, her strength when she felt all her smallness in the universe. The gentle thudding of his heart in her ear would reverberate throughout her entire future.

A small town in northern Louisiana might seem a unlikely venue for such a fairy tale, but bear with the teller. Mostly Cajun folk live thereabouts, everybody knowing everybody else, everybody probably related if you look hard enough. Mind you, the Cajun part is almost gone, but the frequent use of _cher_ and okra (sounds like a duo, huh?) remind you of their roots. The oldest folks still speak the fractured French, but everyone else was raised by the television.

Papa Bolay (it's a long story) owned the local general store-slash-post office (that's a long story, too in this day and age) where everyone who was anyone caught up on all the local gossip, that is to say, news. Fit to print or otherwise. Old men played checkers in the front corner and young boys stared into huge jars of candy. Okay, it's cheesy, but go with it.

Cherie wasn't even her given name. She was baptized Marguerite Elizabeth wearing the lovingly hand-crocheted christening gown worn by every child born into her family for the past 150 years. _Grand-mère_ had hand sewn the silk underdress just for her. She was to keep it in her hope chest for her own first child. Her world was sunshiny most of the time. She witnessed weddings, births and funerals, went to school, fell in love and had her heart broken.

Claire Bolay had been diagnosed as manic-depressive soon after her marriage to Robert 'Papa' Bolay. Everyone in town knew she was odd, but Bobby loved her anyway, and was willing to do anything to protect and shelter her. He proved it time and again by sheer physicality, pummeling or being pummeled by anyone and everyone who insulted or derided her in any way. The town thought he was as crazy as she was, but admired him all the same for it.

Three boys and little Cherie later, Claire was beyond caring what the townsfolk thought and simply tried to live one day at a time, fighting off the voices in her head she never told the doctors about. Everybody lies. Thus are misdiagnoses born, and borne. There were good days and bad days, but there was always papa.

Growing up with three older brothers was a blessing and a curse. A blessing because they were always there to protect her. A curse because they were always there to protect her. She learned early to stand her ground and cry at just the right moment. She also learned to hide her emotions when it really counted. They depended on her to run the household when Claire could not. She depended on them to take care of themselves.

Cherie knew all about the voices. She seemed to be the only one and she shared that knowledge with no one. It was usually when Claire was really tired that the voices would come to her. Cherie watched, fascinated, as she would hold entire conversations with thin air. At first the little girl thought it was a game, a delightful game of hide and seek. It wasn't until years later that she realized this was not normal. So Cherie did what papa had been doing for so long. She took up for Claire, sometimes taking the verbal blows from others herself.

Cherie and the guidance counselors at school had come to the conclusion that she was good with numbers and they all decided she should pursue a career in accounting. It was a rewarding career, she was assured and altogether acceptable for a woman. Until she married.

Which happened far too early and without enough foresight.

On her seventeenth birthday, Cherie met Marc Robertston. He was an exotic creature, from a far off land called Wyoming. They called him a cowboy, she called him delicious. And he was. Tall and lean, with piercing black eyes and a mane of dark hair to die for, or get tangled up in. He was being groomed for the rodeo. How he and his family ended up in northern Louisiana is unclear. Some said his father stole some money, or horses, or another man's wife, depending on who was doing the telling. It didn't matter to Cherie. He was there, he was beautiful and he was wicked.

As predictable as sunrise, she found herself pregnant. Contrary to all her friends' and family's assumptions, Marc did the right thing. He married Cherie. He wanted to. He loved her. It was never determined whether or not her family ever really believed that.

Cherie was in her fourth month of pregnancy. The couple were in New Orleans for the Junior Regional Rodeo Competition. This would be Marc's third ever competition and, hopefully, his chance to make his mark on that world. The stadium, which saw such varied activities as tractor pulls, monster truck rallies and assorted 'proper' equestrian events stunk to high heaven as far as Cherie was concerned. All that manure, hay and sweat, both human and beast was more than she could take. She elected to remain in their RV parked at the far end of the sizzling asphalt parking lot.

It was the tea-concocting Herb who brought her the news. He didn't want to. But, he knew he had to get to her before anyone in the parking lot could. In the days before cell phones, word of mouth was the fastest method of spreading information, especially bad news.

She didn't want to know the details. It didn't matter how Marc's hand had gotten tangled in the rope, how he couldn't get free of his glove, how much blood was spilled in the dust. All these and more the little crowd that had gathered was dying to import, but she just shut the door and left them all quite unsatisfied.

Later that night, after viewing Marc's body laid out so cold and pale, and after making arrangements to have him escorted back home, Cherie went back to the RV and met Herb once again bearing bad news. Herb would go through life hating himself for this twist of fate.

Papa Bolay had received the phone call regarding Marc's demise and promptly dropped dead, the phone gripped tight in his fist. Some in town swore they could hear Claire's screams all the way downtown. Some in town could swear they could hear Cherie's heart breaking all the way down in N'awlins.

Somewhere in the wee hours of the morning as Herb drove the RV back home, the baby decided she didn't want to live without Marc or papa. Cherie wished she'd had that choice. It was Cherie who had to finally make the heart-wrenching decision to have her mother committed. Without papa, she just wasn't safe anymore. None of the boys could come to the conclusion that it was the best thing for Claire, the best thing.

So, at eighteen years of age, Cherie had fallen in love, become pregnant, married, lost her husband, her child and her father and put her mother in a nuthouse, garnering the everlasting disapproval of all who knew her.

Cherie took Marc's insurance money and headed east.

Chapter Eight

Margaret Wilson sighed in relief. This was her third son and her last child. She didn't care what David wanted. She'd had enough of these three day labors. Thankfully, this one was healthy and already seemed to be content. Not much of a crier, he'd opened his eyes once, then closed them again in innocent slumber.

"James? A New Testament name, David? We've got Jonathan and Joseph, why not Jeremiah or Josiah or Joshua, even? My father will have a stroke!"

"Your father is always having a stroke over something, Mags." He brushed the wet hair from her forehead with his fingers, "I took one look at him and 'James' popped in my head. I like it. James Wilson. Has a ring to it."

She smiled up at him. He was such a dope. Things were always 'popping' into his head. Out of nowhere, he'd come up with some crazy idea or another. Luckily, very luckily, they weren't crazy at all. Almost every one of them ended up making him money. She always said he could stand still on a corner and make a buck. They were comfortable and happy. Their home in upstate New York was a modest one story affair, brick with pretty yellow window boxes which were always full of some blooming something or other, weather permitting.

Neither David nor Margaret were extravagant people. They lived within their means and saved amply for the future. They didn't count every penny and splurged when it was appropriate. As the boys grew, David became involved with the Scouts and Margaret hosted many a sleep-over. The basketball hoop in the driveway was the cul-de-sac's kid magnet and all the other parents on the street always knew where to find their juvenile delinquents at dinner time.

Jon, Joey and Jimmy were glued together most of the time. There was never a scrape one of them got into that didn't involve the others. They lived out of each other's back pocket. Jimmy was the baby and took the heat like all baby brothers do. But any threat to him from the outside met with heavy resistance or retaliation from the other two. He adored his older brothers. Jon and Joey were only a year apart, Jimmy was four years Joey's junior.

You couldn't pry those boys apart with a stick. Until high school. During Joey's sophomore year, David received the opportunity of a lifetime. It meant he had to relocate the family to New Jersey. Everyone was enthusiastic about the move except Joey. He had a girlfriend. He was a star basketball player. He played guitar in a makeshift band consisting of kids from school. The arguments raged on and on and in the end, Joey had to go where his family went. David's parents were dead and Margaret's parents were too old to dump a kid with, and a teenager to boot. There was no other choice.

Reluctantly, Joey went with his parents to this alien world. He hated Princeton before he ever stepped foot inside the city limits. Things were different after that. Jon dutifully fulfilled his role as eldest son, graduating top in his class and going on to Rutgers, a sad and heartbreaking separation for the youngest of the boys. Jimmy then watched his brother Joey fall apart and felt helpless to do anything about it. David and Margaret thought it was only a case of teenaged angst, that Joey would grow out of it. Jimmy knew better. He was with his brother when Joey started smoking pot and drinking. They kept the secret from their parents very well. Jimmy learned fast how to cover for Joey. The last thing he needed was losing another brother.

Joey barely graduated from high school. The Wilsons were as supportive as they could be but they simply couldn't understand what he was going through. It never occurred to them that he might need medical attention, that he might need a therapist. He just plodded from one day to the next, from one menial job after another, spending every cent he made on drugs. Spiraling downward slowly, but surely.

Jimmy stayed close to his brother, always acting as the designated driver, the dedicated wing man. He'd clean up the messes, hide the evidence, make up whatever excuse it took to keep Joey out of trouble with his parents and out of jail. Somehow, he managed to graduate high school with a 3.9 GPA, although he would tell you later, he slept through most of his classes. Joey stayed at home with his parents while Jimmy went off to college, then on to medical school. Jon, in the meantime, had garnered a prestigious job with MIT, researching the latest buzz on the planet: the personal computer.

Although Jimmy worked hard in college, he was lonely. His boyish good looks never failed to garner him favor with the girls and he took full advantage of that, but what he really wanted was friend. Someone he could pal around with, share confidences with, have fun and get in trouble with. That someone dropped into his life like a bombshell during his third year at medical school.

Be careful what you wish for.

Fresh from being booted out of Johns Hopkins, one of the most prestigious medical schools in the world, for cheating of all things, Greg House landed in Jimmy's dorm as his roommate. Theirs was not an auspicious beginning. Coming back one day from the library, Jimmy found to his dismay that most of his belongings had been shoved into a small corner of his room and some giant ogre was sprawled out on the bigger of the two beds.

It was immediately made clear who the alpha dog was in this relationship. House barely spoke to Jimmy for the first six weeks, yet at every opportunity turned him into his own personal servant. Never calling anyone by their first names, if House talked about Jimmy at all he made vague references to 'that Wilson kid'. Finally, Jimmy reached his breaking point and threw all of House's 'crap' into the hallway and changed the lock on the door.

What Jimmy didn't know and never did find out was that House had intercepted a letter to him from Joey, begging him to come home. He was hearing voices and it scared him. The letter had been written in the boys' long-ago worked out 'secret code' and although the code was easy to crack, the veiled reference to 'voices' somehow slipped past him. It wasn't until decades later that House realized it wasn't just a kid crying for his baby brother, it was an honest-to-God cry for help from a brother he never knew Jimmy had.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Nine

The reason Cherie ended up in Princeton, New Jersey is a simple one: she ran out of gas. At eighteen years of age, that was a big deal. She hoisted her meager belongings on her back and hiked into town to find a motel for the night. In the morning, she reasoned, she would go apartment and job hunting, as well as find a school where she could put her talent with numbers to good use.

It was noon before she woke. She hadn't realized how exhausted she was. But now she was angry with herself. Quickly showering and dressing, she left the little room in the mom and pop motel to find a newspaper and a gas station, hoping against hope that no one had towed her car away overnight.

Mrs. Abernathy, the 'mom' of the mom and pop motel met her in the office where the newspaper machine was located. "Good morning, dearie! Glad to see you up and around. I thought you'd sleep the day away!" She was as wide as she was tall and full of laughter. She reminded Cherie of Santa in 'The Night Before Christmas'.

"No, ma'am, I've got to fetch my car. I ran out of gas and had to hike here yesterday. Hopefully, no one has taken a liking to it. Can you tell me where the nearest gas station is?"

Mrs. Abernathy looked horrified. "Honey! I wish you'd told us that yesterday, I'd have had Mr. Abernathy go get it for you. You wait right here!" Out the door she flew before Cherie had a chance to draw a breath. Quickly enough, Mrs. Abernathy was back, 'pop' in tow.

"Let's get you in the truck little lady, we'll find your car, gas her up and get her back here in no time." Mr. Abernathy had to be nearly seven feet tall and skinny as a rail. The two of them were comic book perfect. Cherie smiled and allowed herself to be led away, as if she had a choice.

They both heaved a sigh of relief to find that the car had been unmolested, save a small sticker on the driver's side window from the local constabulary indicating the car would be towed if it was still there in 24 hours. Mr. Abernathy hoisted a gas can out from the bed of the truck and commenced emptying the contents into her gas tank. She started up with nary a hiccup and Cherie followed Mr. Abernathy back to the motel.

Once returned to the arms of safety, the Abernathys invited Cherie to share lunch with them and would brook no refusal. They filled her in on all the local goings on, what parts of town to avoid, which grocery stores were best and how to get to the community college as well as the university. After all was said and done, they offered to let her live there with them until she really felt like she had to have a place of her own. She had fallen in love with them and accepted their kind offer.

Her first job was as a bookkeeper for a small trucking firm in Princeton. It was fun being the only female around. All the guys were nice to her and several of them hit on her, but none harassed her. She was everybody's little sister. Her boss, Rufus, went so far as to offer to pay part of her tuition. She had taken his godforsaken ledgers and turned them into readable accounts. As far as he was concerned, she was a genius and a saint.

Cherie enrolled in the local community college, a little put off by the thought of attending a big university and was glad she did. Once she got her mandatory classes out of the way, she transferred to Princeton University's College of Business and earned her degree in accounting. A year later, she sat for her CPA exam and passed on the first try… an amazing feat. Soon after that, she found a pretty little garden apartment in a quiet neighborhood and amongst many tears, left the Abernathy's motel.

While her professional life was beginning, her personal life didn't suffer, either. She had more than her fair share of dates, but no one came close to Marc and she still mourned for him. Occasionally, she would date someone for a few months, but nothing ever lasted longer. Most of her female friends were sisters, girlfriends or wives of the guys she worked with. One of them took her to a club one night which featured a huge dance floor.

One of the things Cherie missed the most about Louisiana was having somewhere she could go to dance. She and her friends back home would go out every weekend and line dance. All the drama of the small town would be echoed on that dance floor and everybody did their version of Monday morning quarterbacking once they woke up from their hangovers. The owner of the club invited Cherie to teach lessons on Tuesday nights. She jumped at the chance.

Returning from work one evening, Cherie was surprised to find a rather thick envelope resting against her front door. It was an invitation for an interview with one of the largest accounting firms in New Jersey which had an office right there in Princeton. She immediately called the Abernathys and told them all about it. The Abernathy's were thrilled and wished her the best of luck. Mrs. Abernathy even suggested she wear her beige suit with the cadet blue blouse which showed off her eyes so well.

The interview was daunting. She met with three of the partners in the firm who owned what had to be the best poker faces in the world. Answering all their questions with a studied calm, she spent the better part of two hours trying to read their minds. It was useless. She left the interview not knowing whether she would get the job or not.

Two weeks after, another letter arrived from the same firm, extending an employment offer to Cherie. It was then that she finally picked up the phone and called home. She had made it. She was on her own two feet. She had arrived. Her brothers were happy for her and brought her up to date on the health of her mother. Claire was near catatonic most of the time, occasionally surfacing for a crying jag, then lapsing back into silence. The boys rarely visited her. Cherie vowed to see her mother the first time she had a vacation. She was never able to keep that vow.

Late one August night, Claire somehow managed to escape from the home and had run out into traffic, sparring with a semi tractor trailer truck and losing the fight. Cherie could never go home now. She was in Princeton for good.

Chapter Ten

_Joey paced the room, holding his hands to his ears. Why hadn't Jimmy written back. Why hadn't he called. Where is he. He doesn't love you anymore, Joey. He doesn't care about you anymore. Perhaps he never did._

"What the hell is all my stuff doing in the hall?" House bellowed when Jimmy finally opened the door after several minutes of ever-increasing hammering.

Jimmy stared at him and spoke in very low, menacing tones. Tones which were not his usual style or preference. "You and your crap have been evicted. Find yourself another sap to sponge off. Go away and stay away." The door slammed shut.

House stood dumbfounded. "Wils… Jimmy, I…" A sudden, extremely odd sensation washed over him. If he'd learned anything about Wilson in the past few months, it was that he was a pushover. A caring, sometimes annoyingly caring person. It just wasn't his nature to get angry, much less stay angry. House had pushed Jimmy like he pushed everyone else. There was nothing different here. So why did he feel like he'd just killed a baby bird? And why would he care if he just had?

Jimmy opened the door, leaving his room for an evening class. He was surprised to find House still there, sitting amongst his gear, head lolled back against the wall, snoring. He kicked House's foot with his own. "Why are you still here?"

House woke with a momentary disorientation, then jumped to his feet. "If I put some of my stuff in storage, can I come back?"

Jimmy was touched. He thought he saw actual emotion in House's eyes. This was the first time he would be suckered into believing House. The pattern would continue for years. "Mine is the big bed." Jimmy left House in the hall and headed to class, patting himself on the back for cracking the marble veneer that was House. Oh, how wrong he was.

Three and a half hours later, Jimmy returned to find that the giant ogre had once again claimed the larger bed. However, the gear was neatly stowed in only one of the closets and Jimmy's belongings were where he had left them. A small victory, that. He worked on a physics problem that was driving him to distraction, finally admitting defeat and heading down the hall to the showers. Upon his return, he found the problem had somehow worked itself out, albeit not in his handwriting. The ogre hadn't moved, or so it seemed. Must be elves.

For awhile, House was on his best behavior, still bewildered that he thought it necessary to do so. He even started initiating actual conversations with Wilson. To his surprise, there was a depth to Jimmy that he'd missed before. He found they laughed at the same things, enjoyed the same music, although Jimmy's taste in movies was totally different.

Christmas break came and Jimmy wondered why House wasn't packing like everyone else. As for himself, he was excited to see his family again. He'd missed Joey. He hadn't heard from him in awhile and wanted to talk to him badly. Jon was married now and seldom home, but this year he would bring his family home with him.

"Aren't you going home for Christmas break?"

"No home to go to."

"What? Where are your folks?"

"In Holland."

"Why don't you come home with me? No one should be alone at Christmas."

"Thanks, man, but no thanks. I'll be fine."

Jimmy knew that was a lie, but didn't push it. He finished packing and picked up the shuttle which ran from the campus to the airport hourly from the week before break to the week after. Every shuttle was jammed with college kids heading home. As he settled into his seat, he couldn't help but have a twinge of guilt at leaving House behind and alone.

House sighed as he watched the shuttle pull away from the dorm. Well, at least now he could play his stereo as loud as he wanted.

Once home, Jimmy was horrified to discover just how far Joey had deteriorated. He'd lost a good 15 of his body weight and was frequently away from home for days. No one knew where he went or what he was doing. Jimmy spent most of his vacation prowling around Princeton, trying to find his brother. His parents had tried to have him committed, but legally, they could only hold him for 72 hours and no one had declared him incompetent.

On Christmas Eve, Joey came stumbling back to his home. Reeking of urine, completely filthy, Margaret took one look and broke down and cried. She couldn't take it anymore. Jon's wife quickly hustled the children off to bed. It was the last time Joey was coherent enough to comprehend his surroundings. Jimmy took the time to clean Joey up and feed him, trying all the while to talk to him, find out where his head was at. What he discovered was a lost soul, filled with self-loathing and emptiness. After the holiday, Jimmy swore to get Joey into a treatment facility.

In the morning, Joey was gone. Jimmy skipped the gift-opening (a concession to Jon's wife who was Catholic) to search Princeton for his brother who was lost in more ways than one. He finally spotted him on a street corner in a decrepit part of town. "Joey, please come home with me. We can get you help, we can help you beat this thing." For twenty minutes, Jimmy pleased. Joey looked at Jimmy with vacant eyes. He was stoned out of his mind.

"Hey, man, got some change?" Joey staggered away, not even recognizing his baby brother any more. It was the last time Jimmy saw him. He would regret not chasing after him for the rest of his life.

Chapter Eleven

Surprisingly, House had no idea Cherie was in the hospital, let alone her diagnosis. He was too busy digging up whatever dirt he could find on her. Literally spending hours at his computer, he'd found out her entire life story. Including the bit about ditching her mother in an asylum. And the baby. The marriage and the baby would be tricky, he'd have to leave that ace up his sleeve until the very last deal of the game.

He rationalized that Wilson needed to know about her mother's schizophrenia for the sake of any little Wilsons he might be contemplating, this particular mental illness skipping generations as it often did. The thought sent shivers down his own spine. It was impossible for Wilson to fall in love with anyone who wasn't a basket case, and yet, from what he'd witnessed, Cherie didn't really fit into that category. She was a puzzle. Wilson's motivations were a bigger puzzle.

Armed with his handful of terra firma, House made his way to Wilson's office where he knew the boy wonder would be knee-deep in paperwork. To his amazement, Wilson was seated in the comfy 'bad news' chair. He'd pulled it away from its usual place and set it in front of his office's window wall. Wilson was just sitting there, staring into space, ostensibly watching the rain chase itself in sheets across his balcony.

"Go away, House. I can't deal with you today."

"There's a few things you need to know."

"Nothing you have to say could be of any interest to me."

"Then talk to me about what interests me."

"Go away. Please."

"Why are you in love with this woman, Wilson?"

_Was the moron completely blind? Could he not tell by my voice that I'm in trouble over here? How self-absorbed could he possibly be? Ah, but you know the answer to that, don't you?_

"She has a name, start using it. Besides, in what parallel universe do you care, House? Go torture someone else."

"There isn't anyone else. Besides, there are things you need to know."

"I love her because she loves me. It's not a concept you could ever contemplate, much less understand. And I know all I need to know about Cherie. Now, for the last time, please leave me alone."

"Just what is it you know about her?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, House! She was born in Louisiana, raised in a loving family and came to Princeton on a whim." Wilson allowed himself a bitter chuckle. "She ran of gas."

"What?"

"She ended up in Princeton because she ran out of gas."

"That's got to be the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"Good for you. Mark it in your diary."

House's voice dropped a few decibels. "Did she tell you about her mother?"

"Her parents are dead. Her brothers are back in Louisiana."

"How did her mother die?"

"I don't know. I don't care."

"She ran in front of a semi that was doing about 40."

There was no response from Wilson.

"She was running away from the mental institution where the love of your life had put her."

Wilson slowly rose from his chair, still watching the rain. House moved in closer, standing just behind him.

"She'd put her there after her father died. The woman had been sick for years, hidden away by the family. He died hearing the news of Cherie's husband's death at, of all things, a rodeo competition. She lost the baby she was carrying soon after. Did you…"

Wilson spun around, the power of the blow he delivered nearly knocking House unconscious. Summoning strength he didn't know he had, he hauled him up by his jacket and jeans and literally threw House out of his office into the hallway where a crowd quickly gathered. The cane followed like a missile.

"Don't ever let me see your face in anything other than a professional context again, House. Do I make myself clear?" Wilson's countenance was a study in pure hatred. The door slammed shut. For the second time in nearly two decades, he'd thrown House out of his life. This time, it would be for good.

"House, what in the hell were you thinking? Have you finally lost your mind?" Cuddy was standing behind her desk, hands on her shapely hips, eyes blazing fury. He had hobbled into her office after the altercation, nicking an ice pack on his way through the clinic.

"He needed to know!" House's whine was more than annoying.

"Why? At a time like this, what possible use would…" Cuddy came around from behind her desk and stood in front of House, who was sprawled out on her office sofa, the ice bag to his face. She peered deeply into his one uncovered eye. "You don't know, do you?"

"I know my cheekbone is probably broken, it hurts like hell."

"No, you idiot. You complete and utter dolt! You have to be the most selfish, self-centered son of a bitch on the face of this planet!"

"Flattery will not get my pants unzipped. Especially when you're ovulating."

Cuddy sat down beside him, throwing his legs off her coffee table. The action made him wince again. "Cherie is, as we speak, upstairs as a patient on the oncology floor. She's dying, House. Inflammatory breast cancer, too far gone for anything but palliative treatment. She'll be dead by the end of the year, if not sooner. You couldn't have chosen a more auspicious moment for an old-fashioned ass-kicking and you got it. I, for one, am proud of James. Had I the strength, I'd throw you out of here myself. Now get out!"

House was thunderstruck. What had he done?

Chapter Twelve

Cherie continued on at the firm for awhile. She felt she needed to keep busy until her strength gave out altogether. Friends helped her choose wigs and brightly colored scarves for the inevitable hair loss. Her employers were more sympathetic than she could have hoped and her case load dwindled. One morning, the CEO came to her office to let her know that she would be allowed to retire at any time, with full benefits. She was nowhere near retirement age, but they were going to make an exception in her case. The fact that the CEO himself had delivered the news was not lost on her, either. Cherie turned in her request for retirement two weeks later.

James had moved in with Cherie and taken an extended leave of absence to concentrate solely on caring for her. There were good days and better days which turned into good days and bad days. Tonight was the end of a bad day.

Cherie had received her final radiation treatment and was celebrating with her head perched above the commode. She'd been there for half an hour. The weather had turned cold outside. She shivered as she rested on the cool linoleum. Where was James? What was taking him so long?

There was a knock at the door, then a pause. Cherie really didn't want to answer it. Didn't want anyone to see her like this. The knocking resumed, more insistent now. Finally, she hauled herself up, ran a hand over her near-naked head and went to answer the door.

She faced House across the threshold, not quite believing he had the nerve to be there. He put his free hand out to keep the door from slamming in his face. He truly appeared contrite. And horrified at her appearance. So different from that night at the dance club.

"Are you finished staring, or are you here for a reason?"

"I came here to see you."

"Well, you've seen me. Now what?"

"May I come in, it's freezing out here."

He wasn't lying. She had begun to shiver. "Please, Cherie, you're chilling."

She backed away from the door and allowed him entrance. He immediately headed to the sofa and pulled off the afghan which was always draped over the back. With remarkable tenderness, he covered her fragile body and led her back to the sofa.

When he was confident she was comfortable, he began the speech he'd rehearsed a million times. It spilled out all garbled and stuttery. Finally, he stopped, stood and dropped the pretense. "Cherie, I came here to offer you a sincere apology." His voice jammed in his throat. He hadn't truly apologized to anyone in his whole life. It was always a joke or a backhanded jab with a 'sorry' tacked on. True sorrow and remorse were feelings he rarely, if ever felt.

"I hurt Wilson badly by doing what I do best… interfering. By hurting him, I've hurt you. I don't know how to fix this, but I want to try." His eyes were intently studying the pattern in the carpet, his cane tracing circles around his shoes.

"You can start by looking at me." She hugged the afghan closer to herself.

He raised his eyes and met hers. It was probably the most difficult thing he'd ever done. She studied his face and decided he was, in fact, telling the truth this time. James was dear to him and he didn't like the idea that he'd pushed him away forever.

They both heard the key in the door and exchanged what amounted to panicked looks. They weren't ready. But there was nothing either of them could do. James entered the apartment, stamping off the cold, not seeing House at first. He stopped dead in his tracks when he did.

"What the hell are you doing here?" He charged at House as though preparing to once again inflict bodily harm.

Cherie stood, House brought up his cane in a gesture of self-defense. "James, wait, you don't understand."

"I understand I want this son of a bitch out of here and away from you!"

Cherie maneuvered herself between the two, placing her hands on James' chest. "Hear him out, James. Just hear him out."

House lowered his cane and looked at the only person in the world he could call 'friend'. "I… I came here to… to ask you to forgive me." Nine words that nearly choked the life out of him.

Wilson watched the internal struggle of this brilliantly flawed man. "I've heard your apologies before House, they never meant anything then and they don't mean anything now. Just leave, I don't want you here any more." Matching tears trickled down both men's faces.

House left the apartment, swearing to himself he would never again let anyone near him. James held Cherie close, knowing he'd lost the only other person in the world that meant as much to him.

Three weeks later, Cherie collapsed, pneumonia ravaging her lungs, infection raging through what was left of her body. James rushed her to PPTH.

"James? Will you do something for me?" Her voice was just above a whisper, catching now and then. The blinds of the room were closed, she hadn't wanted an audience. The potpourri her friends at work had sent her whispered jasmine through the room.

"Of course, Cherie, anything." His heart was breaking, his world falling apart before him.

"Hold me, I'm frightened."

His breath caught in his throat. Removing his jacket, loosening his tie and kicking off his shoes, he tucked himself into the bed beside her, enfolding her shrunken body into his arms.

She trembled ever so slightly with each tortured breath. There was so much she wanted to say to him, so much she could never tell him. "I love you, James. I love you so much."

"_Je t'aime, mon cher_. More than you'll ever know."

He held her fast, stroking her arms, gently kissing the top of her silk-clad head until her body fell silent, her soul lifting away, carrying his with it.

The nurse started toward the room to silence the high-pitched whining of the machines, but the cane shot out from nowhere, blocking her entrance. She looked up at House, his eyes red, his face wet, and backed away quietly.

It was House who silenced the machines, turned off the IV, the oxygen. As he turned to go, a barely perceptible voice sounded behind him.

"House. Stay. Please."

For once in his life, he did as he was bidden.

Fin


End file.
